angels

an old cobwebbed beardy writes poetry which nobody wants to read – he doesn’t even know where these words come from – some of the things he writes about have been knocking about for years – since he was a teenager – muses have come and gone and now he bides his time in solitude waiting for his angel to take him away – his shepherdess – there is simply no point trying to explain his thoughts to the outside world anymore – he barely steps outside his own thoughts – when you have nothing your thoughts become your only precious possessions – he glides through them like an eagle searching for prey – somewhere hot would be nice – he’s always fancied ending his days propped against a smooth boulder at the entrance to a cave on the side of a cliff overlooking a vast expanse of nothing – but would his angel – his shepherdess – know where to find him – and would the wolves find him first and tear his flesh from his bones – never one for taking risks he elected to stay put – surely she would find him here – he listens for her every day – in the sound of the birds in the overgrown garden – in the wind that whistles through the cracks in the window frames – in the conversations that keep him company when he closes his eyes and leans back into his solitude – the sun warm upon his old cobwebbed beardy face – his smile radiating contentment – he would never know how it came to be that he became an angel himself – what a mystery this life is – how it takes us without warning.

muy bien

I tear the photographs of me into tiny pieces
sort them into colours black and white
brown and blue, green and red and orange
faded like an almost forgotten Majorcan sunset
where we went to forget about Dad
and turn our lives into something new
I wasn’t quite sure what to do
I was only a kid

I glue the pieces of photographs on large sheets
of snowy white paper that is rough to the touch
freshly fallen with no trace of footsteps
as all childhoods should remain
but we know that’s not possible
the pieces are jumbled now
I make them into different shapes
that resemble landscapes

And I am there if you look closely
amongst the rolling hills and fields
a lost boy peeking out from behind trees
you see me waving from inside a cloud
no  angel am I
only torn pieces of photographs
thrown to the wind and scattered
confetti memories strewn

sweet wilderness wind

let me sleep in the cleft of your old body
where the sticks and stones will bruise my bones
and the sun will find me between each shadow

it’s where I want to be
it’s the end that I wrote to my story
there where the sagebrush blooms
where the wild horses kick up the prairie dust
and where you’ll find me one day dying

oh come to me sweet wilderness wind
collect your scents and thirsty words
there is no other life for me

no more the traveller I
the poet wanderer no
I’m tired yes
I’m lost and
long grown weary of searching

I lay myself down
stretch myself out
close my tired eyes
pretend I’m comfortable
when all along comfort is no reward
for a sinner

oh come to me sweet wilderness wind
collect your scents and thirsty words
there is no other life for me

 

reverie

the agapanthus sways upon the wind’s reverie
as if fishing for your thoughts when you lean sideways
hand clasped on the brass bird’s head that adorns
your walking stick, you forget why you came here
this was your garden after all, but somehow
it doesn’t feel like yours anymore
for there are strangers fitting safety handles
and filling up your space with chatter
like so many swifts that congregate like swirling angels
if only you could raise your head high enough
to take them all in
you know they are waiting there for you
but for now you content yourself with studying the grass
and shushing the voices that come to you on the wind
when only the faintest scent is discernible
from the agapanthus that sways upon your reverie

out

out
through the gaps
that rattle and trap
westerly sea breezes
between grey slate tiles
and wooden slats
the seahorses race
over green rolling hills
and with them
the shanty sighs of fishermen
their black notes hung
on cormorant wings
borne aloft
on white beards of spray
the churning
yearning tides of time
keeping secrets hidden
like buried treasures
cannons and caskets
doubloons and bones
shipwrecked with all hands lost
as we all must surely
someday
succumb

The view from my window
St. Ives, Cornwall
Sunday 10th. February 2019

Echo

he came
and sang
my name
upon the porch
and the winds then carried us both away

my oh my
I was wild
a forest child
back in the day
his north country muse and borderline torch

hobos both
drifters too
howlin’ wolves
in travellin’ shoes
our spirits set free to pick and choose

word strings on
snowflake wings
his Echo from
Minnesota springs
he sang of love and those mountain blues

but now
it’s time
to bid
farewell
I wonder, will he remember me at all?